#classicalcrowbar

The trudge is slow and stifled. Hard to move through the thickness of the collapsed bodies not yet picked up by Respawn. Michael is spitting out curses, balancing the prone body on his back as he makes his way back towards the Respawn room. It was a victory on their side. The Classic Red Team hadn’t stood a change and fell from the onslaught the Blu’s had driven into them.

Breathing out a heavy sigh between his teeth, Michael sent a slightly worried glance back at the Scout that was being held in place. His back was hot and wet from the blood seeping in through his clothes, but thankfully, Michael knew that the Scout would be all right...what with the fingers tracing things into his back and the casual squawking that came from his lips.

For once, this was one act of cruelty she'd allow herself to enjoy; After all, she was just repaying his kindness tenfold from when she and some of her team had been held on the submarine. God, just looking his face made her cheek and shoulder throb. Her heart racing with excitement and anger.

A grin had curled on her lips when she had chased down the older runner; shooting at his legs to bring him down before standing over him with a bat in hand. There was no way she was just going to give him a clean death. Not after he had personally wronged her. She lightly clicked her tongue down at him.

When they had first met, way back then, Michael wasn’t a friendly man. He’s changed now, but when it had come to sparring, he needed to know that the mercenaries he was paired with were good and ready to fight.

Only now, Michael believed they were. Even if he still kicked the crap out of them every once in a while. 

“You done already, Rory?” Michael drawls, keeping his boot pressed into the side of the Scout’s face, keeping his right cheek pinned to the floor. And, by extension, the rest of his scrawny self too. Laughing to himself, Mick cocks his head, taking on a look of playful teasing, wondering if at all he would try to escape his current predicament.

Explosions rang out from around them; Michael had forcefully pushed Rory, the younger mercenary, behind him to take more of the damage more intended for him. He was able to survive it; Michael took shelter behind a wall, breathing out a ragged sigh through his lips. Blood dripped into his vision from a laceration across his scalp, and numerous wounds decorated his own body.

“Yeh alright, kiddo?” His eyes dart towards Rory, whom had been quiet. Almost too quiet. “You’re alive, right?” Dropping his chaingun, Michael hurries to Rory’s side, dropping down to get a good long look over his smaller self.

He couldn’t see much.

Was espionage her strong suit? Not entirely, no. Did it ever stop her from trying? Absolutely not. Should she have rethought that before boarding and sneaking the halls of the submarine? Definitely.

There was another low groan as the Bostonian winced, her head pounding as if it had a death wish on the rest of her well-being. Where was she now? Last thing she remembered was nearly pummeling a goofy looking guy with an almost comedic mustache; close to breaking the geezer’s spine (or at least popping his hip out of place) before he slipped away and then-

Her roomate speaking had gotten her attention, and as she raised her head to look at him, a split-lip scowl sullied her pretty face. Oh. There he is. Without thinking, she had tried to make a move against him - ready to knock that stupid though admittedly off putting grin off his face, only to discover the predicament she was in. A mix of spite and dread forming in the pit of her stomach as she pulled against the restrains for a moment longer. Eventually settling on just scowling at the man.

The room was small. Cramped. Reminiscent of times spent in closets locked by cruel sisters that put the woman on edge. This felt almost no different as she sized the man up. He had size, she’ll give him that. Older. More experienced no doubt. The apple clutched in his hand almost made her think that he wasn’t worried, but if that were true, why was she retrained to a chair?

There was silence that filled the room, a white noise that was almost touchable until she coughed up a glob of blood and mucus and spat it at the man. Situation be damned. 

It’d be, maybe, a long trip to get to New Zealand, where those mercenaries were waiting to get the Australium that the old lady needed. But the submarine was fast; it’d get them there in time just before the mercs could even think of leaving. But that still didn’t take away from the fact that this Heavy was going to be excruciatingly bored.

It didn’t help that the ex Scout was hanging around.

Or maybe it did? Whatever.

The majority of the time, he could barely understand a single word the Irishman said. But it really didn’t matter. Rory did his job well and never fucked up. Not as much as someone he knew. Fucking kraut nurse.

     ❝ IS IT? ❞  LUDWIG GLANCES UP A CLOCK HUNG on the wall across from his desk, lifting a hand to shove his glasses up the bridge of his nose. A hum acknowledges their predicament as he confirms the Scout’s more immediate concern.

     A brow hikes its way up in an expression of apparent amusement. Already Ludwig is shoving his papers into a plain manila folder, which he tucks carefully away into a drawer to be locked away securely. From the same drawer he plucks a small bottle of pills, turning it over in his hands to glance at the label. In the sharp loops and swirls of his handwriting is Herr Cassidy’s prescription – perfectionist as he always is, Ludwig had taken the trouble to cook up the medicine himself. His first trial, some weeks ago, had killed a large animal, and the second put another into comatose. But since then, Ludwig has put effort into crafting the perfect formula. This one should be no trouble at all.

     He tosses the bottle in Herr Scout’s direction.  ❝ This one is much more effective than any prescription you’ll find in a typical pharmacy. Take one a day, with caution – and only one. The smaller pill size is not a mistake. ❞

     And there, that’s their business done and finished. Another look tossed towards the clock, and then back to his new colleague.  ❝ Hmm... I don’t remember saying that we have to obtain the cake legally. ❞  He reaches for his coat, dragging it up over a shoulder and sparing Herr Scout a wide grin that promises mischief.

     ❝ That being said – are you going to be breaking into a bakery in your pyjamas, Herr Cassidy, or do you prefer to go and get changed? We would not want those nice slippers of yours to be ruined. I would at least change those out for good running shoes. ❞

“Not the time Rory, up you fuckin’ get.” With his grip on the back of Rory’s uniform tight and unwilling to let go, Michael wasted no time hauling Rory off the side of the ledge and back onto solid ground. Thank god the Scout was light and not heavy as fuck like the rest of the Blu mercenaries were. 

When Rory’s feet touched ground, Michael was already beckoning him into cover because the Reds took notice of them and aimed for them. Which, Michael decided, was a good idea to hide because even he couldn’t take out that many assholes while still a bit disoriented from that astounding catch. Cliffs were really shitty to fall off of, even more so if someone blasted you off. Pain accompanied by more pain. That was never fun.

In cover now, Michael’s grip went to his minigun, holding it tight as he thought over an idea to get them out of this. Any minute now Arthur or Greg will come running through this area, blowing people and things to kingdom come because who didn’t like blasting people off perilous edges to their deaths? So, Michael looks at Rory instead.